90 posts
  • breeta 4d

    My stubborn heart insists on walking backwards,
    Towards the love story that never had it's happy ending.

  • bloodehgummehbearz 5d

    Ayyy, its me again. The first part of "A Dark Victorian Valentine" did really well, so I thought I'd go ahead and put up the second part. So, as always, let me know what you think, and here we go! @writersnetwork #dark #Victorian #valentine #tragic #tragedy #death #romance #love

    Read More

    A Dark Victorian Valentine #2

    Chapter 2 -- Help from an Admirer

    Florence had been watching some of the boys work when she heard her father yelling. She heard the soft shiiink as he grabbed his whip off the hook.

    A sad, yet familiar sound.

    She watched as the boy -- 4193 -- was dragged off into the yard. Her blue eyes met his dusty brown ones, and her heart immediately began to race.

    In his eyes, she didn't see the normal look for the boys here. Not the usual sorrowful look.

    There was sorrow there, of course, but buried deep down, hidden from everyone. Atop this sorrow was a look of curiosity that she instantly adored. In his eyes she also saw bravery, and kindness. It was like a huge puzzle of emotions.

    And she wanted to put the pieces together and solve it.

    Florence hiked up her dress, walking over to the door as she heard the first cries of pain. She put her ear on the door and listened. Her heart quivered at the thought of the scars the boy must have -- will have after this.

    How many lashes is he to have? she thought to herself. Surely not that many...

    But to her dismay, the whipping and the cries continued on, even after the bell for the workers had rung, sending them off to their beds.

    Finally, the cries stopped. She quickly moved out of the way as the door was flung open, 4193 stumbling inside before her father. He yelled and shooed him off to bed, then seemed to notice Florence. His mouth was agape.

    "Florence!" he began his scolding. "It is past your curfew! Have you gone mad, little one?"

    Florence paid no mind to her father, not hearing a word as the young boy stumbled off to his room. Her heart dropped into her stomach as she saw his bloodstained shirt.

    Freshly bloodstained.

    Finally, he father shook her. "Florence Heralding, you listen to me! Get. To. Bed! NOW!"

    She jumped at her father's tone, but, hiking up her dress once again, she took off, running for her room in the factory. Once there, she closed the door, slipping out of her dress and putting on a light green nightgown. She slipped into bed and listened to the heavy footsteps of her father slowly fade away.

    Thump, thump, thump, thump...

    Finally, a door slammed shut as the footsteps ceased. Her father had went to bed.

    She threw off her covers and got up, walking to her closet. She opened it and dragged the heavy medical bag out.

    Her mother's medical bag.

    She ran her fingers over the embroidered name on the side.

    Rosaline Gowoer-Heralding.

    She let out a soft sigh, then lifted the heavy bag, walking carefully over to the door. She opened her door with a soft creaak and walked down to the boy's barracks, her feet making faint sounds against the cold, metal floor.

    She looked at the numbers on each door.




    She stopped at the next door.


    Slowly, she opened the door, stepping in quietly. She closed the door behind her.

    The small kerosene lamp was on, giving the room a soft and eerie glow. The boy was on his knees, his face buried in his thin sheet. His bloody shirt was laying on the floor, the wounds on his back clearly visible.

    Florence's heart felt as if it stopped as she saw all the blood.

    The boy suddenly looked up, gasping in pain as he did. Setting the bag down, Florence kneeled next to him, signaling him to be quiet.

    The boy gave a small nod, recognition shining in his eyes as he whispered, "Who are you?"

    "My name is Florence," she replied quietly. "I'm here to help you."

    Florence opened the bag. "I saw you come in with your wounds, and..." She sighed as she pulled out the whiskey and the bandages. "I just had to help you."

    The boy gave a small nod, his eyes widening at the whiskey. "Wh-What are you going to do with that?"

    Florence put a reassuring hand on his shoulder, feeling him tense under her hand. "It disinfects the cuts, so they don't get...well...infected. It burns quite a bit, but it's good in the long run."

    The boy gulped, then slowly nodded. "R-Right. Let's get it over with th-then..."

    Florence nodded, then opened the whiskey. The smell filled the room as she gently poured it onto the boy's bleeding cuts. He gave a small hiss of pain and she remembered something her mother had told her.

    She took one of his hands into hers and squeezed it gently.

    His wonderful eyes seemed to widen, then something flickered in them. He gently squeezed back, his calloused hands against her soft and warm ones.

    She smiled at him reassuringly as she stopped pouring the whiskey. She corked the bottle and replaced it in the bag, taking out the bandages.

    "Now," she whispered. "I need you to stand up. These have to go all around your torso."

    He nodded, seemingly in a daze. He stood slowly, and Florence felt her cheeks flush as she stared at his chest. He wasn't quite muscular, but the slight rise of his muscles made her cheeks feel warm.

    Was he blushing as well?

    Florence stepped forward slowly, feeling the heat off of his body. She held the bandage in place with one of his hands, and she began slowly wrapping his torso.

    The process seemed to take an eternity, not one of them saying a word to one another.

    Florence adjusted the bandages one last time, then stepped away, smiling at her handiwork.

    The boy looked at her. "Thank you for this, Florence. I shall never forget it."

    Florence closed the bag and picked it up. "It's no trouble at all."

    As she walked to the door, he spoke softly.

    "Ichabod," he whispered to her. "My name is Ichabod Willits. I beg of you to remember it, and not my number."

    Florence said nothing for a moment, then spoke up. "I'll be sure to remember it."

    Then she was out the door.

    She made it to her room before she knew it. She placed the bag in it's spot, closing the closet door.

    Then she curled up under her soft blankets, closing her eyes. She fell asleep and dreamed of a name.

    A boy.

    Ichabod Willits.

  • _maansi_ 1w

    She built up a world
    of magic because her
    real life was tragic.

  • _mcnerdy 2w


    She vowed to never forget my name

    Well, Alzheimer doesn't remember vows.


  • tinker_belleish 3w


    I'm here
    Standing near
    Looking at you
    I want you to stay

  • vaishnavimr 3w


    Love? I doubt there must be something more meaningful to define us.
    Love can even destroy us and we can't let that happen!
    We didn't knew what we had but obviously no relationship tags can ever make it meaningful.

    ©Vaishnavi M.R.

  • beautiful_deathx 2w

    I saw you
    last night
    sitting in the corner
    all by yourself
    stringing the guitar
    to unknown notes of music

    I had never heard
    had seen you before
    in this desolate corner
    of the world
    sippin on your gin
    humming to yourself
    unbeknownst to my gaze

    your green eyes
    in the low light
    with a strange glow
    of something
    I couldn't
    quite figure out

    were you at crossroads?
    which delimma
    bothering you?
    I wanted to know

    was it impolite to approach you?

    a dry laugh
    escaped my lips
    as I tried
    to decipher
    the look in your eyes

    you seemed lost
    like you didn't know
    where you were
    couldn't quite understand
    what you were doing,
    and had resigned
    to let those strings
    your storm
    and the chaos
    raging within you

    your hands were delicate
    like your soul
    it seemed;
    and you looked
    like the guy
    who'd not be ashamed
    to tell me
    his favourite flowers

    there was something
    honest about you,
    about the way
    your hair
    cascaded down your shoulders;
    brown locks
    weaving an intricate tale
    of something I craved
    to know

    you looked like an outcast
    a misfit in hell
    a gentle soul
    who had, that night
    brought me under
    his spell

    there was a point
    when your eyes
    towards me
    and there was-
    I felt it
    a whispering thump
    where my heart
    is supposed to be

    I realised it later-
    you didn't look at me
    you couldn't have
    it couldn't have been

    it was nearing morning
    and I had go
    I wished I could've stayed;
    see you as you slept,
    slumped over
    the barstool

    but I had to go
    till it was night
    once more,
    and I hoped
    you'd be here
    when the moonlight
    from behind
    its veil again

    you're a thief
    with pretty green eyes
    and a heartbeat,
    but you gave me mine;
    hundred years
    is such a long time.

    if you go
    find yourself
    choose your way,
    would you please
    put some sunflowers
    over my grave?

    it's just across the road
    desolate and alone
    and sun hadn't shone on me
    till you took my breath away.


  • _astraydove_ 4w

    You didn't sense my magic,
    thinking I was a tragic.


  • mrjohansalad 6w

    You were the reason I woke up in the morning.

    You with your messy bun that always looked perfect to me.

    You with the mascara underneath your eyelids.

    The matte polish on your toenails and fingertips.

    Knowing that you existed in this reality of mine was the only alarm I needed and I would always wake up on the right side of the bed.

    When we met you would always give me the same high pitched over enthusiastic scream that embarrassed me at first but which I had soon grown used to.

    All our conversations revolved around who wore what and why they wore what they wore. Conversations that we would never remember and seem pointless at the time but held great gravitas in their moments.

    When we walked around the blocks and streets you would always balance yourself and tiptoe on the curb on the sidewalk. The pout on your face when you stumbled always remained in my memory and heart.


    When we were together, we used to look up at the stars and imagine ourselves as celestial beings existing with each other for all eternity. I guess your eternity came sooner than mine.

    Now you're gone and I've never felt so alone.

     I can't look up at the sky anymore

    because it reminds of dreams we created but never chased because not every dream can be conquered alone.

    Now I walk in the middle of the road bearing the blaring horns of indifferent drivers for what is the use of a footpath if you're not there to fall from the sidewalk?

    Now the clothes on my back are just necessities to me. Let others gossip about what I wear and why I wear what I wear.

    Now I am non existent at social gatherings; as if, it would be the same if wasn't there. I'd give anything to be embarrassed by a shrill greeting.

    Now I always wake up on the wrong side of the bed.

  • khushhi 7w

    I float by the memories
    Yet I would do anything to forget them
    As I would have been forgotten by present
    And became a tragic piece of past


  • whyyou__ 7w

    Fairytales bleh:^

    When people ask me :Are you fine
    I say I am fine yet I cry till midnight on a pillow.
    The pillows know my story well than my list of ex boyfriends.Mockery:3
    When people ask me:He is your husband
    I sayy Yes he is but he does not my birthday and never cares to know.❤
    When people ask me:What happened
    I say Nm because life is great it is just that I got nothing interesting in it.Bold makeup on light transparent clothes.High waist jeans and that bargaining attitude.I am a prostitute.I come to existence when people's wives are sleeping and there is staccato silence prevailing.Screams of mine are the ones India does not protest to.
    Rape with me is not a sin not a Legal sin.
    Contradictory:3I am silenced with money.I do not want to stayy a life like this.
    Being termed as dhandewali.Not great but I say this is my profession.I get loads of money true .Never wanted money with so much of pain.
    It was only when so many circumstances forced me into this dungeon of eternal darkness:3
    But when I look at the glistening eyes of Arushi ,my 4 year old little girl."Mom bought CHOCOLATES? "I look at my vagina bleeding but give her CHOCOLATES anyway.My husband is paralyzed mentally and physicallyI still love him tho.
    You see there is a reason for everything.
    Prostitutes too dreamt of fairy tales and dreamt dimple faced boys .They too believed in happy endings and good life.I am a mom too and a wife.
    Do not call me dhandewali. I had to do it it was never my choice.Never my preference.
    Prostitutes are your alternatives always.You cheat on your wives too.Respect every women in every way
    Maybe before calling me a prostitute you should see that look in eyes as if I am your prey and you are ready on pouncing on me.
    Do not be a pathetic womanizer every 365 days;)


  • pavithraprabhu 11w


    I wrote secret love letters to my dreams and hid them under my mattress.
    The steel cot turned into a rosewood cradle like coffin.
    The mattress turned into heaven white satin adorned with blood dipped Rose thorns.
    I put my dreams to sleep.

    Although I must clear the air.
    Nor am I altogether hopeless.
    Neither am I altogether hopeful.
    Perplexed and puzzled.
    I would rather term them paranormal.
    Phantom like dreams that haunt me.
    I'm unsure of their purpose.
    Are they there to scare me off?
    Are they there to warn me?
    Are they there to deliver a message?
    Unsure. Unaware.

    But unthinking I will write ghostly love letters.
    And I will still profess my love.
    For though I am confused.
    Of what exactly this relationship is.
    The tiring cycle of tragedy, hope and hopelessness.
    Alas, I am a foolish lover.

  • jerome_pesso 11w

    Broken? lost? unloved?
    Everything feels tragic?
    Just sit back
    And let time and the good days do some magic.

  • 000forwriting 12w

    Stars are tragic beings,
    They posses a power,
    To shine a light so bright,
    That mesmerizes the beings of an entire world,
    Yet the same power,
    Will lead to their destruction one day.


  • apurvazore 12w

    Tragically Beautiful

    She was the most tragically beautiful thing that happened to him.
    Tragic because she couldn't be his.
    Beautiful because the truth couldn't fade his love for her.


  • sunrisegirl 13w

    ghostly friend chapter 1 a tragic start

    Once upon a time there was a girl, her name was Darlia she lived in a normal house and had a fairly normal life. But her parents didint really like her so when she turned 10. She was kicked out of her home for being such a pain. When she gained energy she ran into the forest not knowing any were else to go. She tried to survive on her own, but soon gave up. she was too weak and only lasted 1 day and a half . She tried to run back into town but she got lost. She choose a random direction and started running. She didn't really know where she was going and she was really scared. She was running really fast she could barely see.When she looked at her feet they were a blur and when she saw a clearing she thought she was almost home. She ran into a cliff edge until she could not feel her feet hit the floor . She looked down in dismay as the ground got closer and closer. She was falling! She tried to scream but it was to late. She was gone. Nothing more than a ghost. She slowly opened her eyes and realized she was a ghost. With tears in her eyes she flew over to a tree stump. She sat down and thought, countless questions came to her mind after she questioned her self she came to the conclusion that 1. She was not that sad now that she died 2. No one knew she was dead 3. No one cared she was dead.
    Most 10 year olds would have maybe been sad or mad about this but Darlia was now strangely calm she felt relaxed. She was a very confused and weak she couldn't feel the consequence. Tho she had died she was ready for a new experience.

    if you have any constructive criticism please comment below


  • kaaaaartik 14w


    In Sardiyon ki baarish ki pehli fuhaar
    Aakhir chhu hi li aaj maine...

    Unn Baaton ko wapas chun kar layi hai ye Barsaat...

    Mousam dar mousam humne sambhaala tha unn jazbaaton ko...

    Uss pyare se shakhs ki yaadein bun kar phir aayi hai Ye Barsaat...


  • nikhilpunnam 15w

    Musings of a broken heart

    She said "I'm sorry, I keep playing the role of devil".
    Little did she realize, the real devil was my heart, once gentle and whole, now broken into pieces .


  • alokvatsa 5w

    This was first tragic poem penned by Slyvia Plath. She was fourteen when she wrote this poem marked by tragic undertones.
    She suffered from clinical depression for most of her adult life.
    She took her life in 1963. (aged 30)
    Yesterday was her death anniversary.
    She was one of most admired and dynamic poets of 20th century.
    #SlyviaPlath #remembering #tragic #beauty #ponder

    Read More


    I thought that I could not be hurt;
    I thought that I must surely be
    impervious to suffering —
    immune to mental pain
    or agony.

    My world was warm with April sun
    my thoughts were spangled green and gold;
    my soul filled up with joy, yet felt
    the sharp, sweet pain that only joy
    can hold.

    My spirit soared above the gulls
    that, swooping breathlessly so high
    o’erhead, now seem to brush their whir-
    ring wings against the blue roof
    of the sky.

    (How frail the human heart must be —
    a throbbing pulse, a trembling thing —
    a fragile, shining instrument
    of crystal, which can either weep,
    or sing.)

    Then, suddenly my world turned gray,
    and darkness wiped aside my joy.
    A dull and aching void was left
    where careless hands had reached out to destroy

    my silver web of happiness.
    The hands then stopped in wonderment,
    for, loving me, they wept to see
    the tattered ruins of my firma-

    (How frail the human heart must be —
    a throbbing pulse, a trembling thing —
    a fragile, shining instrument
    of crystal, which can either weep,
    or sing.)

    © Slyvia Plath

  • thenomad 73w

    P.O.W ( Prisoner Of WAR )

    Shining like a red ruby in a puddle of snow
    Slender and sleek like a velvet sleeve
    The half - blossomed bud in the early spring,
    The yellow orange sky at dawn,
    Still dressed in rosy hues,

    Such she is ,

    Gazing at moon every night...her sole companion..
    With mind engaged in dilemmas...
    for her soulmate to come back ..

    Such she is ,

    since the day he was called on to the war,
    since their wedding day.

    Confused as to her status-
    Single , divorced , widow ?

    Such she is ,

    Since the day she heard, that her husband is now,